


One For Sorrow

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:56:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney wakes up alone for the first time in months and thinks: Finally, a sign I can read. Then he is spectacularly sick in the bathroom and spends most of the day screaming at scientists who are no stupider than they were yesterday, but now suddenly a whole lot more scared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One For Sorrow

Rodney doesn't get it. He never really has, not even when John smiles at him -- slow and wicked like a blue, blue summer's day, heat-lightning crackling in cloudless skies -- so focused and inclusive that Rodney knows it's all for _him_. John can play fast and loose as much as he wants, but he's always dealt straight -- which, irony -- with Rodney and every look and touch just confirms it. John _sees_ him. Knows him the way no one, from his parents to his few friends, ever has. Those guileless brown eyes are never vague or blank when they look at him, not even when they're fighting -- which they do, of course. Rodney's never met a human he can't badger, bully, or fight with and he's ceased trying to find one.

But with John ...

He's never commented on the state of Rodney's physique, not even when hustling them both down to the gym or the range. It's never about creating those long, lean tones he loves in John, just about preparation. Making certain that if there's thirty seconds between trouble and John's rescue, Rodney can take care of himself. If anything, when they're lying there, John's head on the slight swell of his abdomen, he thinks John _likes_ it. As if he's really telling the truth.

About a lot of things.

They don't talk a lot, at least, not about the thing that's swirling around them, and Rodney hates that he needs that. Needs the words because he can't just infer, instinctively reading the currents that eddy and swell around them. He _doesn't_ get it. He _doesn't_ understand. He needs ones and zeros, syllogisms written with a messy hand on a white board, cold, hard data that he can hold in his hands. Without it he floats, bobbing along on waves he can't swim through, floundering as he fears drowning and washing ashore equally.

Worse still, though, is that he doesn't know how to ask for the directions he so desperately needs. Without them he's flailing, making things worse, but to actually sit down and impugn a man that communicates with gestures far more than he does with that slow, melted chocolate drawl -- he can't do that. He knows that'll destroy whatever fragile foundation he's rocking on, and if this goes bust he doesn't want it be because of deliberate intent.

He hides how bad it is, but, of course, he's as bad at hiding as he is at anything that requires creativity and acting. John knows. He watches Rodney more often, makes his touches more deliberate -- is he trying to say something? well, yes, obviously, but is it the 'you're too much trouble' Rodney's feared for so long? The 'listen to me, you oaf, and stop being so selfish' other men and women have shouted at him? -- but he doesn't leave.

Until he does.

Rodney wakes up alone for the first time in months and thinks: _Finally, a sign I can read_. Then he is spectacularly sick in the bathroom and spends most of the day screaming at scientists who are no stupider than they were yesterday, but now suddenly a whole lot more scared.

This continues until John shows up in the lab, Atlantis night kept at bay by thin, Ancient light, looking grim and frustrated. Rodney turns to scream at him, grateful to have a target that's at least worthy of his better insults and choice invectives -- and deflates. He can't yell and scream because he knows with utter certainty no amount of ego can hide that this is his fault. Not just this rift he feels growing, crumbling under his feet faster than he can scramble away, but he's responsible for that look of pinched annoyance on John's face -- Radek, of course, has called John to try and wrangle Rodney into leaving before he shatters yet more scientists they can't really do without.

Rodney almost sneers when Radek looks surprised and then supremely grateful at John's presence. _Oh, like I'm going to fall for that_ , he wants to snap. But John's still looking at him, blank where there's always been life.

It hurts worse than a knife in the arm ever did.

Rodney doesn't say anything, just stomps away, holding back all the choice parting lines that bubble up, faster as he grows more sullen, more upset. He's aware that John is silently following him, a slight tilt of the head expressing confusion, but the annoyance hasn't faded and Rodney really, really doesn't need this. He knows how to play the 'oops, so sorry' game, he knows how to remain professional afterwards. He knows John knows it too, so having him follow like a silent labrador, watchful and waiting, is just salt on gaping wounds.

He doesn't realize where he's going -- or that the destination isn't his choice -- until he's in the jumper bay. Surprised, he turns to see a hint of a smirk underneath the confusion and John gesturing to Jumper 2. What, they have to be inside a sound-proofed spaceship for this? Rodney wants indignant, he wants his arrogance and ego to rise up like the shield they used to be to protect him. But he hardly ever gets what he wants when he's merely wishing for it, so he slumps and plods inside.

John stays silent as he powers up the Jumper, not bothering to radio in to tell control where they're going, and that's the first time Rodney starts looking at things that aren't John and aren't inside his own head. There's a pile of things on the jumper bench, covered with an Athosian blanket woven in thick greens and blues and browns, earthy colors with a richness that includes this watery world they now live in. Rodney wants to poke underneath the blanket but doesn't -- he knows John will snap then, speak words that are sharpened with disgust and disapproval, no matter how the drawl tries to mask it, and Rodney doesn't want to hear that.

When they land, it's to a part of the mainland Rodney's never been. Not surprising since Rodney's only been over a handful of times, but this isn't close to the settlement at all. This is far up on a hilltop, trees waving in green-scented welcome as John spreads the blanket down on the ground, the basket it was covering holding down one of the corners.

He waits, fidgeting, by the jumper, totally lost when all the things he's expected -- brilliance and experience giving him a 85% accuracy rate -- don't occur. Then John's waving him over and Rodney goes, because Rodney will always, always follow this man. The only one to ever see past the loud and the mean to find that he's still loud and mean but somehow worth it.

Was, anyway.

He lies back on his elbows, watching as John removes this object and that, placing them on the blanket beside them. Their breathing is soft against the song of night birds and the hum of interested insects. When all the objects, dark-labeled and identity-less in the darkness, are removed, John moves with that oddly jerky speed he can sometimes display --

And straddles Rodney.

He oophs, falling back completely, heart thundering even as warmth suffuses parts of him he'd resigned to be cold forever more. It's a fake out, a tease, it _has_ to be -- but John doesn't tease. Not like this, and god, Rodney could really do without him starting now. Because he just doesn't need this, he doesn't need _more_ than to know that he'd been wrong -- as usual -- and that it's done.

"You're kinda a moron," John says, voice warm and amused. "For a genius, anyway."

"Look, can we just -- " Rodney stops talking then because there are warm lips against his, breath that he didn't inhale filling his lungs and the familiar scrape and scratch of a man who is genetically incapable of shaving enough against his cheeks. John doesn't allow him to pull back, sliding a hand to cup the back of Rodney's head, holding him firm and close and unyielding in the best ways.

"Um," he says when John finally lets him go, knowing that he looks shiny-wet in the moonlight, all wide eyes and kiss-bruised lips against dark shadows. "What?"

"Stupid," John repeats. He's grinning, teeth flashing. "You. But that's kinda my fault, too. I think. I'm ... not really good with the whole talking bit."

The _who_ and the -- "Look, Colonel," Rodney says, stiff because his voice is about to break and he doesn't need to look like more of a fool. "If this is your way of saying, I don't know, _good bye_ , then really, it's unnecessary. I'm not going to make things difficult."

"Rodney, you _always_ make things difficult. It's one of your more endearing qualities."

It takes Rodney a moment to get over hearing John use the word _endearing_ in a sentence not full of irony. "Yes, fine. Whatever. I'm not going to now, so you don't have to -- "

Kissing, again, this time harder and faster, teeth rubbing to create a low burn of pain that somehow makes the kiss even better. John's panting as he backs off. "Rodney, _listen_ to me."

"But -- "

"Just _listen_."

John pushes him back against the blanket, softer than Rodney's expected, almost as cushioning as a mattress, really, and oh, okay, he's naked. Or at least well on his way to it because John is stripping him with ruthless efficiency, breathing fast and hot as he removes vest and shirt and then whirls around, still straddling, to remove shoes and socks and Rodney's glad that it's warm out, because otherwise he'd be shivering.

Once he's naked, John strips his own shirt off, and Rodney clues in. This is a final goodbye, the pity-fuck. Okay. He's _done_ this before, it's what he deserves to have done to him, right? To endure those last, excruciating moments as everything slips away into aether, leaving the person dumped feeling even more horrible because at least before the sex they --

it --

Rodney blinks, staring at the stars, and remembers what John told him. _Listen_. Rodney's not good at listening because his mind is always moving, always calculating and that takes up too much of his concentration. But sometimes, something is loud enough or intense enough that the little equations that run slow, and even pause.

Rodney listens.

He listens to the wet, smacking noises as John kisses and sucks his way down Rodney's chest, paying particular attention to the area just under his ribs that always makes him so hard so fast. He listens to the moans that get caught behind John's teeth, vibrating against Rodney's skin before the air around them diffuses the sound to nothing. He listens to the greedy _nnn_ of John sucking on his dick, making him hard and slick and ready. He hears the pleas, unvoiced and lacking words but so strong that it makes Rodney shake, as John strips and works himself open, still facing Rodney, eyes still locked on his.

And as John sinks down, Rodney finally _hears_ what he's been too petty and self-absorbed to ever notice before.

When it's over, they lay there, naked and sated, lightly snacking on the picnic provisions John has brought, bodies tangled, faces pressed close together. It's cliched in the worst way, Rodney knows, but it's something he understands. It's bits and bytes that make sense to him, and he doesn't need to hear John murmuring words in his ear to know what's being said. He _feels_ it, knows it the way he knows science and mathematics, an instinctive understanding and joy that means everything has _clicked_.

"Yeah," John says. "Like that. Like flying. This ... it's like flying."

And for the first time, Rodney understands perfectly what John means.


End file.
